u/halfaroach

I’ve been avoiding making this post for a while now, but here I am.

I’ve been a smoker for 6 years, and for about 4 of those years have been of heavy usage. I’ve wanted to quit for the last two, and have struggled to do so. I mean, shit man I really have a problem with pot. It sounds ridiculous but no matter how badly I want to stop, it seems like I just keep coming back to it. But it’s a real issue now due to stuff that’s been happening with my body.

I don’t remember when I started having stomach problems, but it had to be some time last year. It started as the occasional stomach ache in the morning and progressed into intense stomach cramps until I ate something. Here and there I’d feel so sick that I’d throw up, but now I’m almost positive there’s something really wrong.

I have horrendous nausea first thing in the morning. I’ll puke at random times during the day. The area near where my gallbladder would be is cramping like a motherfucker. The pain comes and goes. But yesterday was especially bad. I smoked, and I was overcome with nausea. I could NOT. Stop. Puking. There wasn’t even anything in my stomach to puke up. My heart started racing and I became violently dizzy. I could still keep fluids down, but I’ve never had a vomiting episode like that before.

I’ve been in and out of the ER this summer for excruciating pain near my gallbladder. Scan after scan and nothing came back except the fact that I had inflammation around my gallbladder and an enlarged liver. I was asked by one doctor if I used cannabis, and he had a hunch that it was CHS, though I was never properly diagnosed.

The thing is, I quit smoking for two months back in March and the vomiting and stomach pain stopped. I hadn’t puked at all. Then I started again and had few issues until now. Now it’s worse. It comes and it goes and I don’t puke every time I smoke. It’s typically the days after smoking in which I have issues with vomiting. It’s hit or miss. My symptoms are never consistent.

I don’t know what’s going on. I just need someone to talk to because I’m scared that if I don’t stop, I’m going to do some pretty irreversible damage to both my wallet and my body.

How did your symptoms progress? How did you know for sure that it was CHS?

Agh. Sorry for the piecey post. I’m not well at the moment.

Thanks in advance <3

Day 4 here! Finally getting back in the groove after a massive and prolonged relapse.

Was with a friend yesterday and reflecting on the dumbest shit we have ever done to obtain or smoke weed and I thought this might be a good prompt to post here.

Later on in my journey with quitting, I would often buy weed, smoke it, and immediately destroy the rest of whatever I bought. My go-to method was destroying it with dish soap. Well, one day I bought a few grams of bud and a pipe. Shortly after, the regret sank in and I did my dish soap routine. Flash forward to the next day when I had $0 and zero weed. I thought that maybe, just maybe I could… rinse off the bud from the day prior, dry it with a hair dryer and smoke it like that.

I tried. And oh boy, did I fail. I took one, measly puff of my soapy lettuce and it felt like I had drank a bottle of dove body wash. I spent the rest of the night trying to get the taste out of my mouth.

I’ve done other things like digging through disgusting garbage for weed I’ve thrown out, but this one took the cake.

Dangerous, and dumb. But I’m looking back and laughing a bit, while also realizing that the hold this drug has on me is a death grip. It’s not worth it to go back to that point in time. It’s honestly a little sad.

Can’t change the past, but can change how I go forward.

Onwards!

Kinda getting tired of people going “GLP-1s are the way!” when most insurance companies will not cover them and they’re insanely expensive. Aside from that, I’ve tried mounjaro and it wrecked my ability to eat ANYTHING. I wasn’t even getting joy out of things that weren’t food related. It’s like my dopamine receptors just stagnated.

But Vraylar has absolutely bulldozed any sense of control I’ve had with food. I’m hungry all of the time.

I mean: All. Of. The. Time.

It’s not just boredom or cravings, it’s a genuine hunger to the point where it hurts. I cannot stop fucking eating, and it’s causing my symptoms of bulimia to ramp up again.

My psychiatrist is like “you’re not gaining weight, you look fine!” But fuck man I’m up 30 pounds on this medication. How have you not noted that for starters, and how can you not see it? I’m uncomfortable. I can’t look at myself without wanting to cry. I’ve never been this hungry before and I’ve never been this heavy before.

I don’t recognize myself and I don’t want to be disordered 😭 I just want a healthy relationship with food and my body man.

What options are there that don’t involve me getting off of vraylar and don’t involve glp-1s? It took me 10 years to find a med that worked for me, so switching isn’t really an option.

Edit: Yes, a healthy diet and exercise are things I’m implementing. But those things aren’t helpful when I physically cannot control my hunger cues. It’s miserable. I try day in and day out and it’s almost compulsory to eat more and more at this rate. It’s a mental thing, not just a physical thing.

I started writing a short story a while ago, and ended up submitting a portion of it for an English class of mine. I plan to expand on what I’ve written so far, but it’s based on some journal entries I wrote during a stint in the psych ward, and I thought you guys might enjoy it :)
————

The Marlboro Method

This place reeks of sterility. The scent of pure rubbing alcohol makes the insides of my nostrils sting, like when you use too much horseradish on a medium rare sirloin. 

This isn’t my first time waiting to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital. In fact, it’s my ninth. You see, I suffer from a case of what I like to call “psychiatric institutionalization”. If you end up in here once, you’re more than likely to end up in here again and again. It doesn’t matter if you’re in here for an addiction, suicidal ideation, or good old-fashioned psychosis…

You will be back.

I shudder in the local hospital’s waiting room as the nurses outside listen for every breath and blink my body musters up. They sit behind that stupid fucking glass window and chirp like birds during mating season. They cannot stop talking, but everything to my ears is muffled. All I can hear is a consistent ringing; a glass rim, gently being brushed with a damp index finger. 

As the women babble on, my boredom begins to consume me. There’s not much to keep yourself entertained in here, and I don’t know what’s worse:

A) Wanting to kill yourself, or

B) Wanting to kill yourself and having nothing to do but think about it

So, you have to make do with what you have. I glance over to my right and am met with nothing but the shade of eggshell. I look to my left and there are a few black scuffs on the wall; a nice change of scenery. How they ended up there was my greatest concern but before I could think any further, my attention faded to find a new muse. 

Four hundred.

There are four-hundred ceiling tiles including the air vents. I wonder how many minds have counted them before me. I wonder if they wonder the same thing. Perhaps I was thought about before my time here was even conceived, and I think that might just be a form of love.

As I sit and wait for my reckoning, I find myself craving the tight draw from a camel crush menthol cigarette. I can almost feel the smoke filling my throat and coating my lungs in that deathly sweet tar as I take a deep breath. My chest begins to tighten as I keep thinking about the sweet smoke of destruction. I am being watched. Constantly surveilled by the cop standing fifty feet from the door, just in case I become violent or try to run. Realistically, I could probably outrun the nurses in this wing that sit on their asses, order fast-food delivery, and gossip for a living, but the buff guy in the corner with a gun and a taser is a different story. 

I notice the clock on the wall as it squawks at me, reminding me of the dreadfully slow passage of time. Tick, tock, tick, tock… it’s 12:54am. My eyelids droop like the breasts of an elderly woman, and suddenly I begin drifting into a different place; a place where my autonomy isn’t questioned and where I am not under the watchful eye of Big Brother himself. I am on my favorite beach in Connecticut; the one I grew up visiting with my grandparents when I was small. I can taste the breath of sweet salt on my lips and see the shores that are laden with sand; sand whose particles disintegrate underneath the balls of my feet alongside the sunshine burning my shoulders. Oh, what a sweet burn that is and how I wish to be soaring across the ocean floor. 
Hours pass, yet time stops. Suddenly, I hear the squeak of a nurse hovering over me and my skin scrubs against the thin plastic sheets of the psychiatric hospital bed. I’ve made it to the behavioral health center with zero recollection of how I got here; stupid Ativan. 

“I need to take your vitals, Miss Gracie,” she says kindly as my eyes peel open; crust filling every corner.

She wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm, and it squeezes my bicep until my fingers go numb. I have always despised getting my blood pressure taken for this very reason. It’s just another part of my body that is constricted, uncomfortable, and unable to breathe. 

After she takes my temperature, I hear someone yell from beyond the propped open door. What they yell is music to my ears.

“Smoke break! Smoke Break! Come get yer darts!”

I bounce up from my bed despite my spinning head. The nurse gives me a nod as I run out from my room and greet the patient advocate at the front desk.
“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Gracie” I respond, shuddering at the thought of my mother yelling my name with her shrill voice. 

“We don’t have a box for you sweetheart”. 

I hate it when men call me that. I’m a mentally ill psych patient that just tried to hang myself forty-eight hours ago. I’m not a tinder date that’s here to get laid. However, I’m less angry about his pet name for me and more concerned with the fact that they haven’t processed my belongings; belongings that include my favorite cigarettes. My eyes bounce from person to person as the other patients gratefully accept their bounty. 

Before I start to spiral with my lack of options for relief, a young man walks up to me. He is short, maybe five feet and six inches tall, and he has an abundance of acne scars covering his face. His hair is greasy and sticks up like it would in sixth grade during a science lecture about static electricity. His knuckles are rough and crackled. I can tell he works in construction or some form of landscaping. In his hands are two menthol Marlboros, and he slips one into my fingers without saying another word. 

He sees me and I see him. We are both drowning and he decided to throw me the only lifeline he could.

There it is again; love, in its purest and finest form.

Just wanted to say thank you to everyone in this community.

This is the only Reddit community I’ve really found support, and it’s an overwhelming amount of support. Some of the sweetest interactions I’ve had online have taken place in this community.

You are wonderful people with bright days ahead.

You know what it’s like to be in pain. You know what it’s like to lose people. You just know what it’s like. You understand.

I feel heard and seen here.

At the end of the day, you are loved even by the strangers whom you touch with your words.

Y’all have made a huge impact on my life and I can’t say it enough:

Thank you. Thank you. Thank YOU!

TW: SA

God. I don’t even wanna get into all of it. The moral of the story is I got raped last year and my entire friend group ditched me after the fact because nobody understood what happened at the time, and neither did I.

I was dating my current boyfriend at the time (he has since come to an understanding of what truly happened), and it was understood to be cheating before I realized the severity of what happened to me. I did NOT cheat. I did NOT consent. And I was heavily under the influence.

Everything is fine and dandy for everyone else now, and I’ve repaired some of the relationships I lost, but they’re all still broken in my mind. I was betrayed by the people I thought cared about me. Some of them came to find out what happened and apologized but man, it’ll never undo the damage that was caused to my psyche.

I got invited to a friend’s birthday with a bunch of the people that stopped talking to me and I was just… shocked with the audacity of it all. You fuckers left me at my worst, never asked what happened, and now everything is just fine and dandy to you? Now I’m suddenly invited again because my boyfriend says it’s okay? I’m so sick of being an extension of someone else. I’m so sick of not being seen as my own person. And Jesus fucking christ, I hate this toxic ass echo chamber of a friend group. I’m done with it. I want nothing to do with it and I want to forget it happened at all.

While everyone was out at their parties last year, I was getting beaten and violated in the worst way imaginable. I used to find myself craving an invite, but now I’m so sickened at the thought of being around these people.

I’m so tired of living in the past while everyone moves on. It’s like a part of me died last year. Not even a part, but a version of me. And I will never get her back. She was stolen from me. And now I’m left picking up the pieces of the damage caused by a piece of shit person that premeditated my downfall because she was so miserable herself.

I’m so upset.

I’m so hurt.

I’m so done.

Since I can’t say it to them, I’ll say it here:

I hope you have toothpicks jammed underneath your toenails and are forced to kick a wall.

Fuck you.

Fuck you fuck you FUCK YOU!

I’m considering it. I’ve been trying to quit on my own for two years and I don’t think I can do it by myself.

I honestly think I need to restructure my life and the dialogue I consume and spew regarding weed, but, I can’t be able to physically access it if I want to maintain sobriety. It’s everywhere. Gas stations, dispensaries on every street. I can’t escape it.

I was able to quit for two months before. Then I thought “just one last time” and smoked again. Again turned into once a week and once a week turned into days on end. It’s caused me an immense amount of health issues including but not limited to: an enlarged liver (didn’t know weed could do that but apparently it does), seizures, CHS (which led to an inflamed gallbladder), and worsening symptoms of my bipolar disorder.

I want to quit so bad. I’m so frustrated with myself. I feel better sober. I love being sober. Why do I keep fucking this up? Why can’t I just stop? Why why why? I don’t trust myself at all anymore.

TLDR; I think I need help.

I had seen a few episodes here and there about 10 years ago when I was 12, but man… it’s like when I was 18 I started watching and never stopped. I’ve seen the entire series through and through 20+ times. What is it about this show that I can’t get enough of? Why is it so comforting 😭

I want to because I feel like the money will be good, but I’m also terrified due to the statistical likelihood of getting hit by a drunk driver 😔 maybe I’m just being paranoid but damn I don’t wanna risk it

Second time this week that I had to call off. Except this time, I went into work and was on the floor. Finally got put on bar this morning after six weeks and we were hella short staffed. I was the only one on the floor and had just finished ringing out two customers. Before I knew it, I was on the ground. I have no clue what happened, and nobody was there to witness it besides the camera above me. The customers were on their phones and just walking away when I went down I guess. It was hot as balls in the store.

I think it’s time for me to sign off and clock out for good. It was a fun (not really) 6 weeks but I’m pretty sure my body just couldn’t take it. Lack of sleep and heat exhaustion will do that.

Letting out a big sigh right now. Hope y’all are well.

I’m going to post something I wrote in a comment here, because I could honestly just use some advice from current Starbucks baristas.

I’m just over a month in, and I am already looking for other jobs. This place is a shit show. My coworkers are rude, the store is severely understaffed, and I feel extremely replaceable. You’re replaceable at every job, but man this one made me feel like garbage about myself in record time. I’ve scrubbed the toilets more times than I have made a caramel macchiato in 5 weeks. In fact, I can’t even tell you how many shots are in each size of a caramel macchiato. The schedule is shit, and the scheduling practices are shittier. I am scheduled 15 minutes short of what would require a break every day! The craziest part is that the customers are my favorite part of the job and the only part that I like. I live in a nicer-ish (personality wise) area, so the people aren’t as crabby.

Aside from all of that, I am honestly just not a good fit for the job. I struggle to multi-task, get overwhelmed very easily, and am extremely sensitive to confrontation and rejection. I am also diagnosed with both ADHD (unmedicated) and bipolar disorder, which add another level of “this feels impossible” to the whole experience.

All that said, I have gained an insane amount of respect for baristas inside and outside of this company. I don’t know how they do it. On top of that, I don’t know how they do it for years on end.

But honestly, I don’t even know if I can handle another day of it. It feels so pathetic to say that when only going onto week 6. Yesterday, I called off my shift for this morning because I had a full blown meltdown over balancing my schedule with college work.

Before I say this, I want to preface that I would never do this: in passing, I briefly considered going in drunk or high just to make it manageable.

I know it sounds like I’m making it sound so much worse than it is, but shit! I cannot believe how awful I feel.

I’m wondering if I should just bite the bullet and quit if it’s making me feel this bad. I was unemployed for a good stint prior to this job, so I’m extremely stressed about not having a paycheck again if I do so. I just don’t know if my mental health is worth it. I already went through the wringer last year, I can’t do it again. I honestly think I was more emotionally stable when I was unemployed.

Fuck man.

Sorry for the long post, I just don’t know what to do.

Edit: misplaced/out of place sentence

I was out of work for 5 months last year after a cataclysmic mixed episode. I got diagnosed last year prior to that episode, so at least I had some understanding of what was going on. This abysmal job market screwed me (as it did a lot of other people) over when I finally felt ready to get working again.

I ended up getting a job at Starbucks, and as much as I enjoy working again, I also physically cannot balance my life. I’m not even working 40 hours a week, it’s more like 20-25.

I don’t know if it’s the ADHD or something else, but I’m finding it impossible to stay stable as I balance work and school and family. I can’t clean my apartment because I have school work. I can’t do my school work because of work work. I wanna see my family but can’t seem to find the time between everything else. Today is the first time suicide crossed my mind in passing in MONTHS. That passing thought scared me. How can I balance life out? How can I still make enough to live? How can I do school and work? How can I be an adult while I still function like a child?

This shit is so fucking difficult. I don’t even think this has much to do with bipolar disorder at this point and everything to do with the way society thinks we should live.

I’m fucking mad, man. This is not what I wanted. This is not what I signed up for. And there’s barely enough time in the day to take a shit.

I don’t wanna go into immense detail about the assault, but it blew up my entire life.

I was blamed for it, I was ostracized, I lost my lover, I was thrown into a psych ward, I lost my job. So many things came from that period of time. I didn’t even know what happened. I didn’t know what to call it. I thought I cheated. I blamed myself for so fucking long:

I was the one who enticed her. I shouldn’t have gone up those stairs. I shouldn’t have been there.

Yet these thoughts coexisted with others:

I will never be able to take enough showers to scrub her off of my skin. I didn’t want that. I went up those stairs that day and didn’t come back down.

I was so confused. I felt disgusting. Until 6 months later when my friend pointed out what it was.

I rehash it in my head from time to time. I mostly try to process it in pieces, buts it’s been on the back shelf until today because I recently found out that my rapist has been anonymously posting about me on reddit. She is completely flipping the narrative, incessantly posting stuff on Unsent Letters/Texts subs and stating how she is the victim; How I ghosted her and broke her heart. She just so happened to have left out the parts where she >!told me she killed someone 10 years prior (was it a lie to keep me controlled? was it the truth?), beat me during sexual encounters, continued to provide me with drugs when I was loudly trying to get sober, and so on.!<

I want my voice back.

I want people to believe me.

I want people to know the truth, even if they’re strangers.

I want to put this to bed. I’m tired of living like last year was yesterday.